


The Dust of Our Fathers

by ambivalentlangst



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Precious Peter Parker, Protective Peter Parker, Reference to Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Time Travel, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Verbal Abuse, Young Tony Stark, caretaker peter parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 17:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambivalentlangst/pseuds/ambivalentlangst
Summary: Apathy is not a pleasant feeling, per se, but there are certain things one just stops caring about when the taste of ash blocks out everything but what isn't there. The thing is, by now Peter has Tony and Tony has him so they've never really talked about the gaps within them that aren't in the shape of one another. They've moved on, honestly, but though Strange wasn't named for his abilities, the title certainly fits both the sorcerer and his spells. On a completely, totally unrelated note, Howard Stark cansuck Peter's—





	The Dust of Our Fathers

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a monster of a WIP to deal with, but now I'm finally finished and it feels _delightful._ A million and one thank yous go out to my lovely beta, [voldsomt-sor.](https://voldsomt-sor.tumblr.com) You're the best!!

Peter held very, very still even though the table he was on wasn’t very comfortable. Strange had insisted that he be in that spot in particular, and Tony was occupied looking through different books he had laying around the sanctum. Consequently, Peter didn’t have his mentor’s usual breed of protective assholery at his disposal to better his situation. Peter frowned and furrowed his brow in dissatisfaction. He knew almost for a fact that he could’ve been anywhere he wanted for this to work, but Strange just didn’t want to walk (or even just portal for chrissake, the man was a wizard) to the next room over for the couch. Thus, he stayed put. May would be pissed if he accidentally got himself rubbed from the fabric of space-time because he fidgeted too much. 

 

“Doctor Strange, I’m really not able to relax too great here. It’s hard, not to mention it’s already kinda weird to have you doing your freaky trance thing over me. Are you sure we can’t go somewhere a little, I don’t know, softer for this?” 

 

Strange shook his head firmly, but Peter still wasn’t going to be dissuaded from his opinion that this was all bullshit. “No, and call me Stephen. Stay put, I’m trying to work.” Peter sighed and  _ did not  _ let his foot tap, as nice it would be to release some of his nervous energy. They’d been at this for a while, and Peter had basically no idea what was happening. Strange said it was better that way, fewer questions on Peter’s part. Peter’s flushed cheeks following the accusation invalidated any arguments he put up about such concerns.

 

He supposed it didn’t matter, and just closed his eyes while Strange worked. His one and only job was to remain in place, just breathe and sleep and “calm your hypersensitive spidey self.” Peter couldn’t deny that one either. He just tried to make things easier for Doctor Strange, because there was nothing like turning to dust simultaneously on an alien planet to foster a sense of loyalty.

 

Peter could suddenly hear his heartbeat spike, thudding in his ears, and there was no subtlety to how he forced himself to think of something, anything different. That was what Tony had hired all those therapists for, that was how he stopped himself from waking May up because he came out of nightmares screaming. Peter’s mouth pinched, and he made himself remember a good memory. Something his mind could find purchase on,b and it settled with Tony in his workshop.

 

Since the Vulture— _ no, another bad thing, he couldn’t think about that right now _ —Tony made time for them to be together in the compound more frequently. They worked on modifications to the suit, (both of their suits, actually, which was probably the coolest thing ever) ate pizza, (they always had to get a large  _ and _ a medium) and watched movies (even bad ones that they only watched to mock). Every once in awhile Peter even got him to turn off his rock for some ABBA, which Tony claimed to hate. Even so, Peter had caught him singing along to Dancing Queen more than once. Peter felt calm, content. Where Tony was, Peter was safe. He’d fixed everything, brought him back.

 

He heard Strange murmur lowly to himself, gibberish that was likely a result of some magic thing that always sounded vaguely made up to Peter. He could feel something on the edge of his consciousness, a little teasing thread that Peter didn’t pay much mind to. As long as he did what Strange asked and didn’t dick around too much, he trusted him to keep him safe. Strange had seen the future and knew the path they had to take, even if that meant clinging to Tony more terrified than he’d ever been in his entire life as his body screamed out against the force unknitting him from the tapestry making up his very existence. Peter couldn’t help but shake, and frantically rerouted himself.

 

Laughing at DUM-E’s antics and Pepper making them both head to bed with good night kisses (Tony got a peck on the lips. Peter’s was ghosted atop his curls and even though the touch was small it made Peter feel invincible). He was at ease once more, but Strange was mumbling again, a little more incensed this time around. Peter remembered him very specifically telling him that he’d have to relax, way back when they were just starting to talk about having Peter help Strange in the sanctum. Peter began to realize that he really was not doing a very good job at that. He tried harder. He wanted this to work, didn’t want to ruin it because the world kept turning and it was just Peter who couldn’t take that sometimes.

 

Peter often wished he wasn’t so anxious, because as soon as he understood that he could’ve made something go wrong he couldn’t  _ stop  _ worrying about it, and that was really what did him in.

 

The thread grew into a chord that grew into an anchor dragging Peter down under waves of green light. Peter began to panic, trying to open his eyes. He didn’t like this anymore, didn’t want to help Strange any longer but his eyes wouldn’t open and his scream was soundless to everyone else keeping their head up. Peter was _drowning_ all over again and nobody could hear a thing.

 

_ “I don’t wanna’ go, please I don’t wanna’ go.” _

 

His suit and limbs and face had turned to dust and all Peter could think of was that he’d let Tony down. He’d let his  _ dad _ down and that was the only thing in the world worse than the agony tearing him apart.

 

_ “You’re alright.” _

Peter wasn’t alright, he’d never been less alright but there was ash and green and something unfathomable rearranging him until he was nothing at all.

 

The feeling was excruciating but brief, at least, or it was as far as Peter could tell.

 

He came to on the floor of an unfamiliar bathroom, which was an incredibly disconcerting experience to begin with, not even throwing in the fact that he could barely breathe. He stumbled to his feet, rushing into the nearest stall to drop to his knees in private. He gagged and sputtered into the toilet for a few long minutes, trying to control the pounding of his head. He didn’t know what had happened or where he was, but he was glad to notice a personal, nice looking air freshener in his stall. Somewhere a little more well to do might have marginally cleaner floors, not that Peter didn’t feel like taking a scrub brush to his skin regardless.

 

It took time, but eventually, Peter had his bearings together enough to stand and wipe the drool from his mouth, coming to face the mirror and take in the sight of himself. To be honest, and Peter almost always was despite how his mouth seemed to take joy in mangling simple phrases, he looked like he’d been through hell.

 

Peter would say that most of the time, he was in line with the appearance of a normal teenager: bags hanging under his eyes and generally seeming like he had too much homework and not enough motivation. There were, of course, the few odd bruises thrown in from his whole superhero gig, but those were covered up with some concealer May had shade matched for him surprisingly well. At the moment, his sunken cheeks lacked any semblance of a flush and his face was several shades whiter than his usual pasty complexion. It was good to know he looked every bit as shitty as the experience had felt. Peter pinched his cheeks to put a bit of color back in them and headed for the door. It was time to sort out what Strange had done. Peter was hopeful that if he complained enough about the whole debacle he could get the couch next time. Weird magic mumbo jumbo didn’t take away the stiffness of his back, unfortunately.

 

Peter wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he first stepped out of his makeshift reception area, but slamming into a waiter sporting a tux wasn’t it. Peter jumped back, already launching into a stream of hurried apologies while champagne dripped down his t-shirt that was suddenly making him feel very underdressed. 

 

He spared a quick glance at his surroundings, eyes just as sharp as ever. His senses were almost immediately assaulted with the variety of perfumes and colognes permeating the room (and they were the expensive kind, Peter was pretty sure). The flow of conversation was too distracting for many to take notice of Peter’s presence, though he saw that the few who did looked both appalled at his attire and annoyed with the distraction.

 

Peter squatted quickly, trying to help pick up some of the glass. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” he babbled quickly, hissing as his fingers flew to clean up and cut himself in the process. He watched red bead on his skin and pressed it to the fabric of his jeans quickly to dot it before the wound closed. They were both straightening up—the waiter almost as snooty and peeved as the company—when he saw a very drunk man stumbling towards the tray currently occupied by shards of the glasses Peter had ruined. 

 

Peter rushed forward, grabbing his arm to steady him before an even bigger mess could be made. “Whoa! Careful there, sir, I kinda broke some stuff and it’d really suck if you—” Peter, well, petered out quickly as the afore noticed man turned with a raised brow. His breath caught in his throat. “Mr. Stark?” The eyes he knew so well were the same pair that had stared Peter down countless times when he did something particularly stupid, but there was almost none of the exhaustion and pain in their depths Peter had long grown acquainted with. The absence of the weight on Tony’s shoulders made Peter ache for what he’d always wanted for his mentor— _ father _ —but never saw him receive.

 

Tony’s smile spoke volumes of how much he’d had to drink. “Please, Mr. Stark is my father,” he slurred. Peter blinked. If he wasn’t absolutely sure Strange had screwed him over before with the bathroom and the lack of a comfortable surface to relax on (Peter swung around Queens trying to give nearly deaf old women directions, and that was the thanks he got?), he was now. Something was fundamentally, blood-chillingly  _ wrong _ because Tony didn’t talk _ ( _ and most certainly didn’t  _ joke) _ about his dad. 

 

Sure, he cursed his name when he was panicking over the troubles of parenting. He made offhand comments about differences in upbringing when Peter told him he couldn’t come work in the lab because he had plans with May. On one of his bad days, he’d even bitterly told Peter about the name given to his first A.I. so that he could memorialize one of the first (and only) people who he knew to love him. Peter’s face twisted with concern. “Mr. Stark? That’s you, isn’t it?” 

 

Tony waved him off, watching the waiter walk curtly away. “Didn’t I just say that’s my dad, kid? Call me Tony. You really got his panties in a twist, didn’t you?” he remarked, likely referring to the staff Peter had lightly if unintentionally harassed. “But I guess that makes sense, considering your outfit. What are you  _ wearing?  _ This is a classy joint, you know, and that pun is awful.” 

 

Peter laughed nervously, listening to faint music he didn’t recognize filter through the air. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m, uh, here pretty unexpectedly? Say, Mr.—” Tony elbowed him with surprising precision for someone as trashed as he clearly was. Peter winced. “Say, Tony,” Peter amended quickly, “how old are you?” 

 

Tony looked miffed. Peter was just grateful he hadn’t stumbled off to go bother someone less confusing and better at adhering to dress code. Peter had heard from pretty much anybody who had known Tony for an extended period of time that he used to be even more fickle (“assholish,” according to Rhodey) than normal when he was younger. He swirled a glass that had somehow appeared in his hand (Peter saw the glint of a passing tray out of the corner of his eye) and took a swig before answering. “Twenty-seven. Probably looking pretty old to you. You’re what, twelve?” Peter ignored the jab for a moment to do the math. He was disappointed with what he came up with.

 

First, Pepper wasn’t with Tony yet as far as Peter knew so he couldn’t just shove him off into her capable hands. Second, Tony wasn’t Iron Man. Fine. Peter didn’t need him to be; it wasn’t like it mattered. Tony was a genius, but even Peter’s hero-worshipping tendencies couldn’t convince him that time travel magic was solvable through science, especially not with Tony wasted and stuck in the nineties. Third, and most importantly, he was young enough for his parents to be alive. Peter scratched his neck nervously. “Sixteen,” he corrected him at last and kept going before Tony could decide what to do with that response. “Tony, do you have any place to lie down here? A room upstairs, maybe?”

 

Tony scoffed. “Aren’t sixteen-year-olds supposed to be able to hold their alcohol? What are you passing out early for? Have you even had anything other than champagne? It’s gross, by the way. You gotta try some of the good stuff they have. Hey, what do you say I sneak you something? Kids are supposed to have fun like that, yeah?” 

 

Peter was pretty sure Tony could’ve kept going, but he smiled and tried not to be too obvious as he continued. If— _ when _ —he got back home, the next time Tony started in on him about the dangers of drinking underage he was totally going to lord this over his head. “I was actually thinking for you, believe it or not. You seem real tired and I was just thinking that the music isn’t very good anyway, so you should probably get to bed early and save yourself the pain of listening to any more of it.”

 

Tony did not look thrilled with his suggestion. “Kid, you are a real buzzkill. That science joke is dragging you down along with it. Burn that shirt for me, will you?” Peter frowned, staring at the print of it. He happened to know older Tony (the Tony with actual taste, in Peter’s humble opinion) found them secretly entertaining because he found a bunch more of them to give him for Christmas, but made no comment. Tony had kept rambling, but Peter had to consciously focus in to keep it from turning into a blur of vague insults and nonsense. “Besides, I am not going anywhere without the lovely blonde I saw earlier with the biggest blue eyes you’ve ever  _ seen,  _ kid—”

 

Peter really did not want Tony to keep elaborating and began herding him towards one of the exits he could see. “But you do have a place to sleep here, just to clarify?” he cut in. 

 

Tony nodded, seeming almost affronted by Peter’s inquiry. “ _ Obviously.  _ I am nothing if not prepared for any and all late night surprises kid. I’m frankly hurt that you would think otherwise.” Peter let him keep going. He knew from experience and the similarities Pepper loved to point out between protege and mentor that if uninterrupted, Tony wouldn’t ever shut up. Frustratingly, Tony was still cognizant enough to know when he was being led. “Kid? Kid, come on, time to let go. I’ve offered you a drink, given you some valuable wisdom concerning your wardrobe choices, but our little bonding thing is over now.” 

 

Peter found it all to be awful advice, but he needed to play nice with this version of Tony who made up for his lack of gray hairs in enthusiasm for things he routinely lectured Peter about. He kept his grip firm. “No can do. Oh, careful!” Peter had to catch him when he nearly tripped over a long train on a dress before resuming his previous course of action. “In like, thirty years or something, you’ll be grateful that you’re not contributing to destroying your liver tonight.” 

 

Tony huffed irritatedly, continuing his attempts at freeing his arm from Peter’s grasp. “Jesus, kid, you’re strong. For someone as skinny as you, you’ve got a lot of damn muscle. Really though, I have big plans. On the off chance the blonde has a date, there’s a brunette I saw that I think would make a good backup. You don’t stop and I’m gonna’ yell. Super loudly. It’s gonna’ be embarrassing for you, I can already tell. You don’t look like somebody who likes attention.” 

 

Peter was grateful that this Tony didn’t know him like the older one did. He was keen enough in his addled state to cause trouble; Peter couldn’t image dealing with him at full power. “If you do, people are gonna’ see you with me and my horrible shirt.” He wanted it to be known that he didn’t mean that. The things he did for the sake of others, sometimes it really blew his mind. Peter was banking on the fact that Tony loved aesthetics throughout the ages. 

 

As he hoped, Tony looked horrified. “Strong  _ and  _ smart. You have a job, kid?” 

 

Peter tried to keep himself from laughing. “Yeah. It’s more of an internship, actually.” 

 

Behind him, he could hear Tony sigh. “Pity. If you get fired for being as much of a little shit as you’re being now, shoot me an e-mail.” 

 

Peter humored him and didn’t bring up the fact that such information hadn’t been given to him. “Sure thing. Where to now?” Peter turned to see Tony’s mouth open to offer his reply before he heard a sterner and vastly more sober voice from behind him.

 

“And where are the two of you going?” Peter snuck a glance at Tony’s face, and was surprised to see it locked up tight, jaw clenched and previously glassy eyes suddenly very clear.

 

Tony rolled his shoulders back and slung an arm around Peter’s. The action was intimately familiar and Peter’s lips wanted instinctively to curve into a smile, but it had never been like this before. Tony’s fingers were too rough on his skin, though it didn’t really hurt much regardless. Peter could smell booze on his breath when he spoke and had to put out quite a bit of conscious effort to keep from wrinkling his nose. Whatever Tony was doing, he likely needed Peter to play along. “Gettin’ out of the party. Kid is tired,” he made a cough that sounded suspiciously like a word May would flay Peter alive if she ever caught him using, “and I was gonna’ talk with him about the stuff he’s been doing at his internship. Pretty smart for an punk, know that?” Peter might’ve laughed normally, but the man was looking less than pleased.

 

Peter sucked in a breath as Howard Stark’s crisp, angry footsteps drew closer.

 

_ Holyshitholyshitholyshit— _

 

“And I suppose this  _ kid  _ is related to the businessmen you were specifically instructed to speak with tonight? The same ones you will be working both with and against in the near future if you ever get enough of a handle on yourself to actually do something with your life?”

 

Peter’s eyes were very wide and very confused as he tried to look like he belonged with a heavily intoxicated future superhero. He wasn’t at an angle that allowed him to see Tony’s face, but he was sure he wasn’t too happy with the turn of events. Regardless, his response was light, almost chipper. “Sure is. He’s with Oscorp, though, which really isn’t the best you could do with this sort of thing, kid, not gonna’ lie.”

 

“Oscorp, is it? Tell me, what’s your name,  _ kid?”  _

 

Peter felt the way Tony’s grip tightened incrementally on his shoulder. “Peter Parker.” Howard wasted no time in finding all the holes he could in Tony’s story. Peter wondered if he thought he was trivial enough company to make a scene in front of, or if Howard just took Tony apart whenever he felt like it—bystanders be damned.

 

“Alright, Peter. What’s your position? Your connection?”

 

“Intern.”

 

“For what division?”

 

Peter didn’t know shit about Oscorp. It was Oscorp, goddamnit _.  _ They sucked, especially when Peter came face to face with cutting-edge, world-saving technology on a biweekly basis. He came up with something generic he might’ve heard around the compound at some point. “Tactical engineering.” Peter was glad to have dealt with an incensed Stark before because the look Howard was giving him when his eyes weren’t boring into his son could kill.

 

“Any projects in particular?” 

 

More than once, Peter had gotten disapproving looks from Tony when he couldn’t can it. At the moment, he was grateful for the practice. “A small team that I’m with is currently working on seeing if a compound similar to a spider’s web can be created and used in non-lethal combat.” A bit on the nose, but Peter went with it. He at least had his web shooters to back him up in the face of Howard’s scrutiny. He always kept them on hand, tucked away in the pockets of his jeans. 

 

Peter looked at Tony to see him grinning from ear to ear. “And there you have it. Peter and I were just talking and so we’re going to  _ keep  _ talking away from all the noise of the party if you don’t mind.”

 

Howard’s voice was low and edging on dangerous. “We’ll talk in the morning about this, Tony.” 

 

Peter wasn’t sure how he’d done it, maybe out of irritation with Howard’s sheer presence, but Tony appeared to be functioning all but like a normal human being, aside from the odd stumble as they fled Howard’s commandeering presence. As soon as they rounded the corner away from him he spat on the ground. “Asshole.” 

 

Peter wasn’t sure if it was quite the right time to tell Tony he agreed, so he just kept dragging him along. Tony wasn’t complaining anymore, at any rate. Peter got by with his shoddy directions and dumped him onto a hotel bed, praying that Tony had gotten the room number right. “There we go. Want me to bring a trashcan over?” Tony got real sleepy real quick. Peter thought he nodded and while he wasn’t normally one to wander in grey areas concerning Tony, he figured this was a good thing to do regardless. He didn’t try to get Tony out of his nice clothes (God knew he had the money to replace them) but he did wiggle him under the blankets. Even with Peter’s strength, it was surprisingly hard when the man seemed to be more gelatinous than Peter had previously known a human could be. Tony Stark, always doing the impossible. Peter took a step back to admire his work.

 

Tony was safely situated, he’d avoided Howard’s prodding, and he’d gotten out of whatever party had been going on relatively unscathed. All in all, not bad for a night’s work. He was going to have a field day explaining all of this to Mr. Stark. He was totally sending the dry cleaning bill to Strange, though. This was all his fault. Almost two years of solid superheroing had given Peter a little more balls for that sort of thing. It was better to be a little vindictive at times, anyway.

 

Peter didn’t like to think back to the ferry incident, the fury exploding out of him in a violent torrent of acid accusations. Peter had felt such fervent emotion physically. His head had throbbed with it, his entire body had ached with the need to scream and shout and tear down something when he’d been trying so hard to keep the world around him together. It wasn’t something Peter enjoyed. That kind of thing happened a lot less when he could release some of that via casual spite. 

 

He announced that realization to Tony, threatening him playfully as he came to the compound to find the cereal Tony kept on hand  _ specifically _ for him gone. “I’m trying a new thing, you know: Spider-Man is more easily irritated with the world around him, and expresses it.”

 

Tony had just laughed and sprayed some whipped cream on him, which was out because they’d decided to try their hand at making waffles with the cereal mysteriously MIA. They’d been burnt and only made tolerable with a gallon of syrup and powdered sugar alongside the whipped cream. Tony had been less amused and more disgusted with him then, but Peter hadn’t minded so long as they were both happy. Peter frowned and watched this Tony, young and with none of the silver teasing his temples or worry lines carved into his skin. He was sleeping peacefully for the moment, at least. It was a rare sight. His Tony had eyebags to outmatch Peter’s and kept himself alive almost solely on coffee and energy drinks. Peter turned away.

 

He didn’t want to memorize his features, see all the missing scars and age and sadness. It would be the cause of a different kind of hurt in Peter when he returned to the future, unlike the feeling of getting here in the first place. He didn’t want to see how the world took and took from Tony and just barely gave him enough in return to keep him alive.

 

Peter made sure the door closed behind him and paused in the hallway to catch his breath. His racing, spiraling thoughts never led him anywhere good. Now that Tony was safe and all around less able to do dumb shit, Peter could think of what he needed to do next. Several options flitted through his head. He could try to find Strange, but that was no good, he wasn’t a sorcerer just yet. He could try to find the time stone himself. Also no good. He didn’t have the modern day internet, let alone the money to track it properly. Peter elected to just wait things out and hope for rescue, though exactly  _ where  _ he was going to do that was something he had yet to decide on.

 

He started down the hall. He didn’t want Tony waking up and seeing his face sober. If he was lucky, the little incident would be kindly erased from Tony’s mind with the assistance of the whiskey tainting his breath. Peter lacked planning, but he supposed he’d remain on the outskirts of the party for now. If he was the intern Tony had set him up as it didn’t make sense for him to leave at the first opportunity. Peter guessed that was fine. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go.

 

He kept on his path while he reminisced about Doctor Strange sitting in the common area. It’d been where he spent the most time when he’d first started to spend less time away from the world in the form of Peter and Tony, speaking of perhaps having Peter assist him in the sanctum— _ perfectly safe, Stark, don’t worry _ . That seemed to have happened ages ago now. 

 

The longer Peter had alone the longer he had for his anxiety to kick up and start worrying him with things like ruining the fabric of space-time. He walked faster. There was no time to be idle here if he wanted to stay calm. He wondered in the event that he was still here when Tony woke up if he could hitch a ride with him back to his labs. Tinkering around in them when there were things Peter wanted to forget— _ gunshots, blood, the sounds of a falling building _ —almost always did the trick. He crossed the idea out with a frown almost immediately. Peter had information about technology way too advanced for Tony to not notice. Combined with Tony’s unending belligerence and curiosity, Peter was sure that if he hadn’t already condemned the timeline of the world, that would do the trick.

 

Peter, stumbling around worrying about distraction and himself and what he’d already done, was too late to notice Howard Stark coming to check on his son until he collided with him in full force. Peter stumbled back, righting himself almost instantly before reaching out to steady Howard. “Oh, I’m so sorry sir, I didn’t you there. I have to get going, Tony’s in his room! I made sure the lights were out and he has a trash can with him and everything. I’m not sure if he knows the number for room service, but I think he should be fine because he’s gonna’ be sleeping for a while so,” Peter trailed off. 

 

Howard was nonplussed and held out a hand in a motion to keep Peter from continuing. “Tony’s drank the night away outside the comfort of his home more times than I can count, was it Peter? I’m sure he’ll be fine. As for you,” he fixed Peter with a stare that made him sweat, “walk with me.”

 

Peter took a few steps back, scratching the back of his neck like he always did when he got nervous. “Really, I should be getting back to the, uh, event.” He wasn’t sure what it was called. Generic titles were fine, right? “I can’t—I shouldn’t.”

 

Howard’s expression was icy enough to freeze Peter on the spot. “We can walk back together, Peter.” Peter gulped and didn’t argue. 

 

If asked, Peter couldn’t have explained the tingling at the base of his spine, his sixth sense firing uneasily in the silence filled with leather shoes pressing into the carpet. Something about being in the wrong time, with the wrong Stark, unsettled him beyond explanation. It felt like a betrayal, almost, especially when Howard began to speak and left Peter wondering how a son could be so vastly different from their father. “How do you know Tony, Peter?”

 

Peter swallowed dryly. The hall suddenly seemed much longer than before. “It’s embarrassing, really, sir. I wasn’t watching where I was going and knocked some glasses over. Tony was about to knock into what was cleaned up,”(it wasn’t like Tony’s inebriation was a secret) “and I steered him out of the way. We just started talking from there.” Tony’s first name was unfamiliar on Peter’s tongue, which refused to acclimate to it. It left a not necessarily bitter, but certainly odd taste in his mouth. Nothing technically false yet, which was good. Peter would never admit it in Tony’s presence, but he really was a horrible liar when somebody’s safety wasn’t on the line.

 

Howard appeared unimpressed. “Tony doesn’t like kids.”

 

Peter shrugged. “I just talked to him, sir. And I’m not a kid.”

 

He could hear Tony’s laugh ringing in his ears the way it always did when he protested the term in reference to himself. Howard stopped and Peter nearly tripped over himself in his effort to follow his lead. He turned to face Peter directly. Peter did his best to calm his racing heart. Even if nobody else had the enhanced senses to hear it, it sent Peter’s pulse thrumming distractingly through his veins. “You’re going to do something for me, Peter, understand?”

 

Peter knew better, had been in enough arguments with Tony over suit usage and patrols and his homework, than to agree immediately. He waited for Howard to finish.

 

“My wife is in that conference room. On her left is a decorated military veteran. On her right is the director of Stark Industries’ biggest partner. She has no idea that our son has drunkenly stumbled out at the direction of a child,” Peter bristled at the stifling, condescending tone while his lips pressed together angrily, “to a hotel room where he’ll wake up in the morning and sleep, or at least attempt to sleep, with the room service. Tony’s ineptness has brought down approximately seven large-scale scandals this year, and I don’t need another. More importantly, I don’t need my wife to see her poor excuse of a son running out on things again. With that in mind, what I need from you is to keep your goddamn mouth shut.” Peter blinked in surprise.

 

He knew Maria Stark’s face by heart, kept fondly in a picture frame stationed at Tony’s favorite workbench. For all the coffee mugs and junk the place collected, Peter had never seen it knocked down, or even dusty. Tony loved his mom, though it was only after Titan ( _ the Iron Man suit was so much harder to hold on to than Peter had ever expected)  _ that he began to tell Peter stories of her. He couldn’t say the same for Howard, whose face was memorialized in textbooks but never anywhere near Tony. 

 

His eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded him. “Sure thing, sir.” Peter knew he should shut the hell up and walk away, but he’d never been very good at that. “But your son isn’t half as stupid as you think he is. You’d think when your kid went to MIT before he was even sixteen you’d realize that, but hey.” Peter smiled, but it wasn’t the same expression that greeted May when she came in from a late shift, nor the one he offered Tony as they tinkered in the labs. Howard was greeted with a very uncharacteristic, frosty curl of Peter’s lips as he held his gaze before moving to turn away.

 

“You say a word about this, and my lawyers will rip you apart, understand? Your internship with Oscorp, any college you want to go to, it can all be taken away.”

 

“Yeah? Ever considered addressing the root of the problem with Tony rather than trying to make everyone else clean up his mess?” Peter snapped. He wondered if Tony would be proud of him for this sort of thing, or if he’d tell him to fight his own battles before going to deal with any of his. 

 

Howard’s eyes were reminiscent of thunderheads billowing ominously across the sky when Peter swiveled back around. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Peter. A lifetime of bad decisions and irresponsibility isn’t solved with a heart to heart.” 

 

Peter almost shook with rage, because though Howard was much better, more careful with his public appearance as compared to Tony, he’d come in late to the labs too many times on a sleepless weekend to find Tony with an empty glass at his side, murmuring angrily about Howard passing on his bad habits. “Amazing what happens when you ignore your son until he does something dumb enough to draw your eye.” Peter had never been so furious, not when he watched a mugger run down an alley after landing a bullet in Ben’s chest and not after the ferry. He saw red cloud his vision and took a deep breath to clear it.

 

Peter could hear Howard’s hands curl into fists. “Don’t tell me how to raise a son that should already be grown. You have no idea the faith I’ve placed in him, only to come to know it will go to waste because he can’t stop drinking long enough to make simple calculations.” 

 

Peter didn’t feel it would be the best course of action to inform Howard that Tony could productively work on an Iron Man suit drunk. He resisted the urge to grab onto the railing of the stairs they’d somehow reached. Despite the fact that he wanted something to hold onto, it would raise some questions to have the wood splinter in his grasp. Peter refused to back down about this, that when he looked past the anger in Howard’s eyes, he saw nothing but cold logic. Maybe if he stared hard enough, a tinge of annoyance. Howard spoke less with cruel intent and more like he was stating facts. If Peter could see that now, he knew Tony had his whole life, and he ached for him. What did it feel like, to have a father that genuinely believed you were nothing but dirt under his shoe?

 

Peter laughed. The sound was harsh, short. Peter remembered straining to hold the ferry together and looking out at the ocean that seemed to throw his failure right back in his face. His thoughts then wandered to Strange, who would maybe yell at him for messing the current timeline up or something. Peter didn’t know and didn’t care all too much at the moment, smiling scaldingly. “Badassium.” Never official, but Tony referred to it as such regardless. “Just gotta look at the buildings. Guess who?” Peter remembered Tony showing him a hologram of his old suit and telling him how he’d gotten locked in his own house, to which Peter laughed his ass off. Pepper had a hard enough time trying to drag him out, it was hilarious to see him irritated with being made to stay put. Then again, he always did have a problem being handed things.

 

Howard looked like he’d been slapped. “You won’t be around for it, and that’s probably a good thing ‘cause you’d have told him it wasn’t enough, am I right? Can’t let him have an inch.” Peter spread his arms, walking backwards down the stairs with sure, angry steps. “He tried to tell you— _show_ _you_ —what he was capable of, and you never _listened.”_ If there was one thing Peter hated it was being talked over, being told that he wasn’t doing anything worth notice when he knew damn well that was a lie. He wondered how much of that came from Tony, who whipped out his razor-sharp retorts whenever anybody showed the slightest bit of doubt in his capabilities. “Give it a try, sometime,” he finished.

 

Peter shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked down the stairs. Party be damned, he still had steam coming out of his ears and if he saw Howard again he was going to lose his cool entirely. He was careful to control his speed as he went to find a bathroom, teeth gritted almost painfully. The flippancy with which Howard had dismissed Tony made Peter want to scream, and before he could help himself he slammed a hand into the tile wall. He felt a little bad at the cracks splintering through it as a result, but not enough to hope they didn’t bill Howard for it.

 

How dare he stand there and belittle Tony to, for all he knew, a stranger, a kid who might’ve looked up to him? The callousness, the lack of faith, it was more plainly  _ mean  _ than anything Peter had seen in a long time. 

 

Peter stared at the fracture he’d made in the wall, spiderwebbed ominously across the white surface. His thoughts swirled, Peter fuming at the fact that it was against his own morals to, well, he wasn’t sure what but to do  _ something  _ more than tell Howard off. All the while, a strand of something worked past his fury to latch onto his mind with chilling subtlety. 

 

Peter imagined Tony as a child (well, not quite Tony because the idea was so foreign it was basically unfathomable, but he was able to visualize a child that could’ve been Tony and that served its purpose). He imagined Howard telling Tony all that he was supposed to be and then scorning him when he tried to measure up to the impossible expectations set before him. The strand grew into a wire.

 

Peter thought of a teenage Tony, his age (maybe even younger, he was hazy on specifics) staring at his dorm room after his parents left him to fend for himself amongst kids entire years older than he. Peter couldn’t even talk to Liz without breaking down. Peter was so worried about that injustice, all of the unfairness Tony had dealt with throughout his life at Howard’s hands, he didn’t notice the wire until he was drowning again and it was too late. The tide had crept in too fast, the same nothingness that had brought him in the first place knocking him into the sand.

 

Peter’s anger receded so quickly it nearly gave him whiplash, panic seizing him and making him choke in its hold. He felt himself becoming undone again, saw sinks and stalls give way to his own shining arms— _ so excited to help Mr. Stark in his new suit _ —flaking away, Peter flaking away into nothing.

 

The green was coming into his vision again, sickly and all-encompassing. Peter wished desperately to simply be back pulling a trash can over to Tony’s bedside, tucking him in and shaking his head at the wrinkles already forming in his undoubtedly designer suit.

 

The rational part of his mind knew he had to get home, but every other part of his body (a body that wasn’t anything and was everything for too long) screamed that he was going to be smothered in orange— _ sunset and rust and all of it scathing _ —and this time he wasn’t going to be let up for air again.

 

The green was stronger than Peter’s terror and nothing like the familiar gold of Strange’s magic. He was dissolving again and all he could think of was Howard’s face when he looked at Tony, cold and unfeeling. Peter crumpled with a sob. Tony had already thought himself a failure for so long, and in his eyes, losing him for good would only prove everything his dad had ever told him.

 

Peter came to on the same table everything had started on, screaming like he was being torn limb from limb. Peter wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that that didn’t miss the mark entirely, or the fear in Tony’s eyes as he hunched over him.

 

He sucked in air, eyes darting around frantically for a glimpse of the green. He had to know he was okay, and when he didn’t see anything worth notice, he lurched up and held to Tony like he hadn’t since—

 

_ “I don’t wanna’ go, I don’t wanna’ go, Mr. Stark please _ —”

 

Tony’s returning embrace was just as tight, calloused hands holding to him like they had not so long ago. However, this time Peter was able to ground himself with, and he sobbed even harder at the irony of it all, the hard surface beneath him. “I’m here,” he breathed through tears into Tony’s ear. “I’m fine—I’m fine, Mr. Stark, and you’re here too so don’t worry.” Peter was certainly not fine in the ways that really mattered, but physically he was no worse for wear.

 

Tony pulled away, but not enough to have his hands leave his arms, just to be sure that the wet spot on his shirt wasn’t blood. He was back to crushing Peter in his hold again in no time, goatee scratchy on his cheek. Peter couldn’t have cared less.

 

“It’s okay,” he breathed softly. Peter knew Tony well enough to know that the reassurance wasn’t just for him. “You’re here, and you’re back where I can keep track of you.” Peter listened to the sound of Tony taking a few deep breaths, not minding it for a moment. They helped calm him down, he knew that, but it still made him no less worried to hear how shuddering they were as they wracked Tony’s frame. When Tony came down a bit, he wanted more information. Or, more accurately, a reason for the splotchy stain forming across the graphics of Peter’s tee. “Why do you smell like expensive champagne?”

 

“I’m not made for events, Mr. Stark.” 

 

Peter felt his heart beginning to slow again, and heard Tony’s raspy laugh as it went over his shoulder. He grinned, nudging Tony’s side with his elbow. Strange’s whereabouts were the last thing on his mind. “Your dad’s a real asshole, you know that?”

 

Tony’s grip was loosening to be less frantic. “Yeah? I don’t suppose you want to tell me how you know that?” It wasn’t the way things were supposed to go when one’s pseudo-son disappeared in some cosmic time traveling accident, but Peter and Tony were nothing if not unorthodox.

 

Peter didn’t answer that. “You’re a real pain in the ass when you’re drunk, too.”

 

Tony snorted. “Everyone who has dealt with drunk me, ever, can attest to that. Mostly Rhodey though. Oh, the stories that man has. You ever hear how he became War Machine?”

 

Peter blinked away his tears in the comfort of Tony’s shirt, smelling of motor oil and a little grease, likely from the lunch they’d gotten before heading over to the sanctum. “It’s Iron Patriot, Mr. Stark.”

 

Tony pulled back, brows furrowed in disdain. “It is  _ not.  _ Didn’t I raise you better than this?”

 

“You know, some would say taking your underage mentee driving around the private track you have built near one of your vacation homes isn’t responsible parenting.”

 

Tony feigned a gasp of surprise. “You don’t say? And to think I gave you one of the Audis for your driver’s test.”

 

Peter laughed. It felt good to feel at home. “Mr. Stark, the fact that you just used the phrase ‘one of the Audis’ might mean there was a pretty low risk factor in that decision.”

 

Tony pulled him close again, his touch far less frantic but just as affectionate in doing so. “Smartass.”

 

Peter grinned. “I learned from the best,” he teased. He might’ve left it at there, but the memory of Howard’s cold eyes was still fresh. Peter’s arms tightened a fraction. “And you know you’re the best, don’t you, Mr. Stark?”

 

Tony looked taken aback. “Well, yeah, obviously, kid. But where did that come from? You’re usually content to bicker and leave it at that.”

 

Peter shrugged, not meeting Tony’s eyes. “Your dad’s a real asshole,” he reiterated.

 

Peter knew Tony would figure it out, and still winced when he started asking more questions. “Peter, what did my dad exactly  _ sa—“ _

 

Peter was saved by Strange’s return to the room, carrying three different tomes that all looked equally dusty. Both Tony and Peter’s heads shot up, looking at him. Strange stared back, or more specifically, at Peter. 

 

He set the books aside, brushing their leftover residue from his clothes. “Well, it’s good to see that that resolved itself,” he declared.

 

Peter scooted away from Tony, hopping down from the table to go inspect what Strange had brought out for the apparent purpose of bringing him back. He wasn’t naive enough to think Tony would let it go, but he’d certainly avoid thinking of the kind of support he’d had growing up for as long as he could. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Strange.” 

 

He sighed, looking to Peter. “I keep telling you that Stephen is fine.”

 

Peter’s foot had started tapping as he shook his head firmly. “That feels weird. Mr. Strange works. Besides,” he cast a glance back at Tony, “I can’t be on a first name basis with you and not Mr. Stark.”

 

Tony scowled, crossing over to join the two of them. “And how many times have I told you that Tony’s fine? You and your need for politeness, kid, I swear. Life is ten times more entertaining when you stop with all that.”

 

Peter ignored the subtle attempt at bad advice. Politely. “Mr. Strange, how’d you know the table would help me feel better if something went wrong?” he asked. Maybe the whole no-couch policy wasn’t as stupid as Peter had originally thought. 

 

Strange gave pause, a little  _ too  _ much pause before answering. “Sorcerer supreme premonition,” he replied dryly.

 

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Sorcerer supreme premonition my a—“

 

Tony’s hand clamped over his mouth, finger waggling disapprovingly. “Now what kind of role model would I be to let you talk like that? Having your aunt like me is something I take seriously, you know.” 

 

Peter’s eyes rolled as he got ready to push Tony’s hand away and fire back, but Strange was moving the topic of conversation neatly along. “Well, it’s certainly been an informative afternoon. Why don’t we all go get something to eat?”

 

That was enough to perk Peter up. “Delmar’s!” he suggested excitedly.

 

Tony scoffed. “That’s all the way on the other side of the city! It’ll take us a half hour to get there even if we all peer pressure Happy into speeding. That’s not great for his heart, you know.” There was a slight gap in his denial. “And there’s a delightful new burger place I’ve been hearing about that’s open just down the street.”

 

“Mr. Stark!”

 

Tony smirked. “Use my first name to whine about it and we can go.”

 

Strange cut in, nodding reassuringly as if Tony’s logic made perfect sense. “First names are a must.”

 

Peter looked sullenly at the ground and just  _ knew  _ Tony had that one smile on that always showed up when he knew he’d won.

 

“Burgers it is!” Tony cried with a cheerful clap of his hands. Peter might’ve sulked the whole way there, but as he dug into his meal and continued to argue— _ Peter, if you asked they could “smush it down real flat” here too _ —between bites, he was just happy Tony had never let anyone hold him back, even if only from a better meal.


End file.
